Why didn’t Brando trust one of the staffers to bring it?
Having only a few items of clothing to choose from—I adored limited choices—I kept my turquoise bikini on, threw on a short, frayed white jean skirt, and added a thin sweater for comfort come evening.
My hair. I peered in closer to the mirror. Grinning, I scrunched it up with my fingers, making it look even more beach tousled. It was thoroughly wild, and I refused to mess with its unruliness. I enjoyed the volume the humidity infused in each strand. Flip-flops would do as far as shoes went, since I was probably going to slip them off at some point anyway. I loved the way the balm of toasted sand felt beneath my feet. I left them off, though, so I could walk around undetected. The wooden floors felt alien to me, my toes wiggling in search of tiny particles.
The glass walls gave me a perfect view. Brando finished his conversation with Uncle Tito, taking a glass bottle in one hand, a small, square box in the other. He tucked the box in the back of his shorts, pulling the thin cotton shirt over it. That didn’t strike me as suspicious, but after the doctor and his wife sped off, he stared at the glass bottle for a moment or two, nostrils flaring, before his eyes found the sand. He was so engrossed in whatever he saw, or thought, that he didn’t notice me watching. He bent down to touch the sand, examining the white coating on his fingertip before rubbing it off between pointer finger and thumb.
He turned his head toward the water, gazing out, and then disappeared around the other side of thebure.
How odd, I thought. It wasn’t so much what he did, but how he did it—with extreme wariness. Though I knew he was coming in, when he did, I jumped and flung a hand to my heart.
He stopped for a moment, staring straight ahead, and then shuddered, making the noise to go with it. “Tito in a fucking Speedo.”
I grinned, dismissing the suspicion that something was going on with him. Somethingwasgoing on with him, but it was of a different sort. “What has gotten into you, Fausti?” My grin grew even wider—he was contagious. Dating looked good on him. No, I amended,everythinglooked good on him.
He matched my grin with one of his own. “I’ve been having fun. With you.”
“Me too,” I agreed, blood rushing to my cheeks.
He looked me over with slow, appreciative appraisal, and I flushed even deeper. “You look beautiful, baby.” He came in closer and kissed my cheek, his lips lingering. The promise of later existed in the leftover tingle. “Give me a minute to change and we’ll go.”
“Oh!” I said, catching him before he went for his bag. “What does the note say?”
He lifted the glass bottle, revealing the hollowness inside. He had already taken the note out. “Captain O’Malley requests our presence at a traditionallovothe night before we leave. Agwe is going to boil seafood, in traditional Louisiana style too—he’s inviting some friends.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said, but my mood dropped with the reminder that we would be leaving soon.
His eyes softened. He struggled with the thought of leaving too. He gave me another kiss, this one on the lips, before he went into the bathroom to change. This should have thrown up another red flag, but being so preoccupied with the thought of leaving the island, I pushed the thought under.
The thought didn’t surface again until thirty minutes later, after we picked up Aunt Lola and Uncle Tito in our own speedboat, and after we made it to another island. Being as curious as I was, the thought sunk again in light of whatever Brando had planned.
This atoll was much smaller than Mystical Island, but no slouch when it came to beauty. A thick crowd of people hovered around a pavilion that reminded me of an oversized hut, set in the center of the forest but facing the sea. The scent of rum and coconut drifted on the breeze, along with music.
“You’re taking me dancing?” I squeezed Brando’s hand.
“O’Malley is good friends with the man who owns this island. He’s some sort of music producer. Every once in a while, a big name will play. If you’re lucky enough to score tickets—” He shrugged.
“I wonder who is playing?” Aunt Lola said, already swaying back and forth to the tune.
“Only one way to find out,” Brando said.
This was not the first concert Brando had taken me to, but this one was up-close and personal. The big-name talent was some wildly popular country singer, and his voice was pure island sugar. Bodies undulated back and forth, a few people singing along, and beach balls were being slapped, bouncing from eager hand to eager hand.
Every scantily dressed woman in the vicinity stopped to appreciate my husband. A few men looked him over too, but for a different reason: to weigh the outcome of a brawl if one broke out.
“Lock up yo woman,” I said, Mitch Lewis style, my voice going deep. “Brando Fausti just walked in.” He stopped so suddenly that I didn’t have time to. “Oof!” I said, my breasts smacking against his solid back.
“Repeat that,” he said.
I rubbed at my hurt chest and repeated it. He threw back his head and almost roared with laughter.
“I’m all yours, Scarlett Fausti,” he said, eyes full of light and humor. “And now it’s more like—stay away from my wife and there won’t be any trouble.”
“Youngsters!” Uncle Tito said, shaking his head. “Shall we find a spot? Lola is ready to dance!”
We found a spot near the stage—by some miracle—and before we started to dance, I kicked my shoes off. The bottom of the hut was made of sand, and I couldn’t wait to feel it beneath my feet.
With so many bodies, the inside of the pavilion held the heat, and the fronds seemed to tremble with the sound of music. The air was infused with tropical scents, the catching vibe of a group that came to dance, and euphony took over. Hours seemed to drift by, and with them the heat of day melted into a sultry night. Torches were lit, their flames of crimson and orange rising toward heaven, wavering with the breath of the sea, casting long shadows along the white sand.
